


clothes maketh man

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's awful taste in shirts is a constant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	clothes maketh man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "only you" from deirdre_c for the silverbullets schmoop challenge.
> 
> Warning for possible permanent injury.

“Only you would pay actual money for that,” says Dean, before he thinks.

The shirt isn’t even purple. More like lavender. Maybe lilac. And it has some kind of pattern in a faint, sickly yellow. When Sam puts it on top of the pile of plaid Dean’s got on the counter at Goodwill Dean sees that it’s meant to be ferns. Like, bracken. At least it’s not dogs of any kind.

Sam shrugs. “It’s the right size. No holes. It doesn’t smell of old guy. What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” says Dean. “Forget I said anything.”

These are the worst moments. Not just the nasty jolt when Dean forgets and then remembers. The moments when it seems like it’s got to be Sam in there. Like there’s some piece of the real Sam trapped in his body with T1000, like a soul in a cage. 

RoboSam doesn’t wear it much, and that’s a relief, 'cause it looks wrong on him. And because it’s an eyesore, of course. Occasionally it features on laundry day. The part of Dean that needs to have his brother, whatever pathetic scraps of Sam he can get by lying to himself (now and then, when he’s tired, he doesn’t let himself, usually), that part of Dean likes to imagine roboSam is a little afraid of the lilac ferns. Like if he did something as Samlike as wearing stupid shirts his soul might start to leech back into him, with all its human crap. 

 

At least this Sam is a pretty efficient hunting partner, as long as it serves his interests. Serves them better than, say, letting Dean get turned. Dean’s mind isn’t totally on the job these days, but he mostly makes it out of things unscathed. Mostly. But Robo isn’t about to stop carving up the five baby harpies to come over and help Dean with Mama Harpy, and she’s fast and Dean had a crap night – dreams — so there’s a point where the thing is dead and there’s no more squealing from Sam’s end of the clearing and everything is going grey. Dean watches fat drops of blood splash onto the leaves. It sounds like rain, soothing white noise. Red noise, whatever.

He comes to in the car with Sam sewing him up and complaining.

“. . . a van. Like the Campbells. Having a proper base and something mobile with space and equipment makes a lot more sense for dealing with injuries. If I’m supposed to be caring.”

“We’re not getting a fucking van,” Dean mumbles. He looks down at his chest. There’s a neat line of stitches across it. Sam is working on his arm now. He has alcohol wipes and bandages and tape and scissors set out ready on the dashboard. It is sort of inconvenient, Dean in the passenger seat, Sam reaching in and around him, but the leather is warm and supportive and the familiar smell of his baby is doing something to alleviate the cold queasiness of blood loss and Sam’s calm, annoyed face. At least the car cares.

Sam finishes his stitching and tapes on gauze. 

“Your shirt was unsalvageable,” he says, “And you’ll need a sling.” 

Dean stays where he is and Sam goes off and rummages in the trunk. He comes back with one of Dean’s overshirts and the fern shirt. He tugs Dean forward, ignoring his pained grunt, and gets soft, warm flannel buttoned on with robo efficiency. Then he makes to tear the fern shirt.

“Wait,” says Dean. “Stop.” Sam looks at him in surprise.

“Use a different one,” says Dean. “Use one of mine.” _Or one of yours. No tearing up the Sam shirt, you bastard. That’s his._ Dean wouldn’t necessarily want to explain that one even to real Sam. 

“That one’s practically new,” he tries instead. He knows it comes out feeble. “We paid good money for it.”

“I don’t like it,” says Sam. “Shows bloodstains and turns out it’s lousy for getting laid.”

But he goes back to the trunk and gets another old flannel number of Dean’s to rip up and the fern shirt goes back in Sam’s duffel.

 

Dean runs a fever for a few days after that. Turns out harpy claws aren’t too sanitary. Sam sits up with him. Doesn’t mean much, since this Sam doesn’t sleep. He mostly looks bored. 

Sometimes when his temperature spikes Dean sees another Sam, vague in the corners of the room. This one has shaggy bangs and he’s wearing that old t-shirt with the whippet on it. His eyes are tired and old and his arms twist back because his hands are tied behind him. 

“Only you would wear that fucking stupid shirt to hell,” Dean tells him. “I thought we threw it out years ago. Wouldn’t even fit you now.” 

Sam just stares at him sadly. His lips are sewn shut, a neat line of surgical stitches. The shirt really doesn’t fit, charred ends of bone poking out everywhere. 

“I’m coming,” says Dean. “We’ll get you a new one.” 

RoboSam takes his temperature and makes him swallow bitter pills and when Dean looks at the corner again real Sam is gone.

 

For once it works out. For once something fucking works. There’s still the Wall and Sam’s going to ruin everything some day because the stupid, stubborn asshole doesn’t know how to let things the fuck alone, but for now it’s like having a bucket of OK dumped over his head every time Dean looks up and sees _Sam_. OK is fucking startling, it’s a shock to the system, but Dean will take it. Even when the shock is compounded by Sam clattering down Bobby’s stairs dressed like an Easter egg.

“You’re wearing the fern shirt,” says Dean.

“I found it in my bag,” says Sam. “Nice, huh? It even fits.”

“It’s an abomination,” says Dean. “You’ll never get laid in that shirt, Sammy, never. Trust me.”

“Says the man who likes hideous fake Western crap,” says Sam. “At least this doesn’t have pearlized snaps. Or embroidery. Anyway, we’re hunting a succubus. Not getting laid is a good thing.”

“Good to know I won’t have to be saving your ass for once,” says Dean. “Even succubi have standards.”

Sam swats at his shoulder and follows him out Bobby’s door. The shirt is ten times worse in the bright morning sun. Dean averts his eyes. He’s whistling as he throws his bag in the trunk.

 

Of course things go to hell. They go to hell in about a hundred of the worst possible ways. Next to the other stuff Dean manages to lose – Lisa, Ben, Bobby, Cas, Sam, Sam, Sam – next to the stuff he loses, even if there’s some salvage, even if he gets some of it back, it’s not a huge deal, it’s not a huge fucking deal, like Dean tries to tell Sam, tries to tell him through the blare of sirens and the sound of Roman’s sleek corporate office tower burning and over Sam cursing and shouting for help and maybe fucking crying, it’s not a big deal if Dick maybe ate some of Dean’s hand. 

“Shut up,” says Sam, “Shut up,” and he’s wrapping something around Dean’s arm, probably his overshirt because he’s down to a t-shirt smeared with ash and blood and black goo.

“You need to change your shirt,” says Dean. Then a bunch of paramedics show up and shove Sam out of the way.

Dean wakes up twice in the ambulance and Sam isn’t there. He wakes up once in the hospital and Sam’s around, judging by the yelling.

“He saved the fucking planet,” Sam’s shouting, “So save his fucking hand.” At least he’s losing it at doctors by the sound of it, not at the fucking devil, but Jesus. Dean’s going to have to get up and deal with this. But there’s a white coat looming over him and saying something about “. . . down to surgery now . . .” and Dean washes away on soft, inexorable oblivion.

 

When he wakes up again he sees a sleeve. He lies for a while looking at it. It’s hanging down past the edge of the bed. There’s a big, bony wrist emerging from the cuff and probably a hand, somewhere below where Dean can see. That’s OK. He has enough to keep him occupied with the sleeve. It’s not even purple. Lavender maybe, or lilac. Printed with hideous yellow ferns. Sam must be here. Only Sam would actually wear that in public.

In due course Dean gets up enough energy to move his eyes. He follows the sleeve up to a shoulder and some messy hair. Sam’s asleep. There are dark bags under his eyes and he’s sporting some really unbecoming stubble. His shoulders twitch and he frowns at something behind his closed eyes. Lucifer, probably. He still pops up, especially when something happens to Dean. Sam’s so much better these days, but he’s not cured. He’ll always be frayed, dangling threads of a self with no soul, a soul in the Cage.

But Dean seems to be alive and he feels OK, in a not feeling anything but the drugs way. And Sam was together enough to not get thrown out of the hospital. Or into the psych ward. That’s a good sign. And he changed his damn shirt. Dean reaches out – apparently he’s still got at least one functioning hand – and grips a fold of cloth. 

Sam makes a muzzy noise and opens his eyes. 

“Hey, you’re awake,” he says. Like Dean’s been the one drooling on himself the last few minutes. “How are you feeling?” 

He leans forward without waiting for an answer – bossy and rude – and presses the call button that’s next to the bandaged mass must be Dean’s other hand. Whatever's left of it.

“I’m good,” says Dean. His voice comes out frail and cracked. Sam leans over again to pour water into a plastic cup with a straw. It’s only then he seems to notice that Dean is still hanging onto his shirt. Dean hadn’t exactly registered it himself, the not letting go. He lets go. Then he grabs again. He has to make sure Sam doesn’t slip back. To the Cage, to Other Sam, to locked in his head with the devil.

“Stop fetishizing my fern shirt,” says Sam. But he wraps his hand around Dean’s wrist, warm and comforting, instead of breaking his hold. Dean’s going to have to ask in a minute, what the damage is, what’s left of his other hand. Not yet, though.

“Like I’d fetishize that,” he says, in his geriatric creak. “Hospital should take it away from you, Sammy. Like they confiscate things could fuck up people’s pacemakers. You can’t tell me you’re not a risk around folk with weak hearts, wearing that.”

“I put it on just for you,” Sam says. His voice is a little fucked, too. “I know how you love it.”

Which is probably nothing but the truth. Dean shifts his shirt death grip to Sam’s shoulder and tugs. Sam folds forwards, forehead against Dean’s neck. Dean’s getting a faceful of awful lilac and hideous yellow ferns. Only Sam. Dean holds on. They’ve come through. He’s got Sam. He’s got a hand to keep Sam from slipping back. Whatever bits and pieces and limbs are still missing, it’s enough.


End file.
